Hero
by Christine M. Greenleaf
Summary: Batman and the Joker return to their respective homes after a fight with each other. And Alfred and Harley Quinn both have different ideas on what makes them a hero.
1. Chapter 1

**Hero**

The door to the Batmobile opened and Batman climbed out, wincing slightly as he put weight onto his wounded leg. "Successful night, sir?" asked Alfred, who was waiting for him with a tray of food and a glass of brandy.

"In a manner of speaking," retorted Batman. "I foiled Joker's plan to blow up the factory. But he got away. And got a few hits in."

"I can see that, sir," retorted Alfred, looking at the torn costume, bloodied and ripped. Batman hissed as he removed his mask. His head was throbbing as he took the glass of brandy from Alfred and drained it.

"Shall I run you a bath, sir?" asked Alfred.

Batman shook his head. "I still have work to do tonight. Just bring me some bandages and antiseptic."

"If you don't mind my saying, sir, you've been working a little too hard of late," said Alfred, gently. "The Joker would never have been able to get any hits in if you weren't tired and distracted. You need rest, sir."

"I can't have a rest, Alfred," he retorted. "Crime doesn't rest. Neither can justice."

"But might I suggest that justice would be better served by a man who feels well and rested," he replied. "And may I remind you, sir, that you are not the only man who pursues justice in Gotham City."

"I'm the only effective one against these super criminals," retorted Batman. "The police can't handle the likes of Joker."

"And obviously neither can you at the moment, sir," retorted Alfred.

"Don't let the wounds fool you, Alfred. He didn't get away without a beating," snapped Batman. "For every blow he got in, I gave him twenty. He's not going home tonight any less battered than me. Far from it."

"Is that justice then, sir?" asked Alfred, quietly. "Two men beating each other into a pulp until one dies from his wounds and the other from exhaustion? How is justice served by that?"

Batman shut his eyes tightly. "Alfred, you know I only do what I have to for the safety of the people of Gotham. Joker must be taught that he can't go around hurting people for fun. The only way he's going to learn is through punishment."

"Like a naughty child, then, sir?" asked Alfred, dryly. "I'm no fan of the Joker, but you'll forgive me for saying that he's probably a bit beyond that now. The way he is is entrenched in his psyche. You can't change his behavior just by beating it out of him."

"I have to try," retorted Batman. "I have to believe I can change him. Otherwise what's the point?"

"You tell me, sir," replied Alfred.

"You've never understood, Alfred," murmured Batman. "You've never understood why I do what I do. It's some need deep inside me that I have to fulfill. I am Batman. I can't get away from that now. I have to keep being Batman, I have to keep trying, I have to keep fighting. Because otherwise there's nothing left. People call me a hero. I have to be a hero, because otherwise I'll be nothing."

"You'll be Bruce Wayne," murmured Alfred. "A strong, intelligent, capable man with the potential for a bright and happy future. A future that doesn't involve dressing in costumes and battling lunatics, but settling down and being happy with a wife and family. That's all I've ever wanted for you, sir, to be happy. That's all your parents wanted for you too. Do you think they'd want to see you living your life in the shadows, clinging to the ghosts of the past?"

"I think they'd be proud to see me as a hero," murmured Batman.

"And is a hero always happy, sir?" asked Alfred.

"No," retorted Batman. "Not most of the time, in fact. A hero in real life isn't like one in the movies, Alfred. He isn't cheered by crowds, he doesn't fly off triumphantly into the sunset, and he doesn't get the girl. He's alone, because he's sacrificed everything for his cause. He's not happy. But he is fulfilled, and maybe that's more important."

"If you say so, sir," replied Alfred. "Would you like anything else besides bandages?"

"Maybe another drink," murmured Batman, handing the glass back to him.

Alfred nodded and turned to go. He paused on the stairs. "Just a thought, Master Bruce," he said, quietly. "Perhaps something for you to consider while you're working alone down here. The Joker, you say, is returning home with twenty times your wounds. How do you think the ebullient Miss Quinn will feel about that? I imagine it will upset her. I imagine she will want revenge on you for it. I imagine that the cycle of violence and vengeance will only repeat itself over and over again, until you realize that a hero isn't always about being absolutely right."

"What are you saying I should do, Alfred?" demanded Batman. "Just let Joker get away with his crazy schemes?"

"No, sir," replied Alfred. "But temper justice with mercy, as a wise man once wrote. Nothing good can come of this endless battle between you two. More people just get hurt."

"There's nothing else we can do, Alfred," muttered Batman. "There's nothing else either of us can do. He's the villain. I'm the hero. He has to try to destroy things, and I have to stop him. That's just the way it is. That's the way it works."

"Perhaps, sir, the world is not as black and white as you claim," murmured Alfred. "And perhaps being a hero is all a matter of perspective."

He left him alone. Batman sighed and went over to the computer, where his notes for this latest scheme of the Joker's glowed at him. He closed that window, and opened a new one, a picture of his greatest enemy gazing affectionately at Harley Quinn, pinching her cheek as she gazed back at him in adoration. For a moment, a strange feeling ran through him, a feeling of emptiness, of something missing, of jealousy even, for what they had. Then his reason reasserted itself once more. They were crazy. How could anyone be jealous of lunatics? Evil lunatics, he reminded himself. Lunatics who didn't care about hurting innocent people, who took great joy and delight out of mayhem and destruction. How could anyone be jealous of monsters like that?

But Alfred's words rang in his ears, and he couldn't help but wonder what Joker's homecoming was like, compared to his own. Couldn't help wondering what it would be like to come home to the adoring, loving arms of a woman, a woman who was just as hurt at seeing him in pain as he was. He knew what it was like to be loved by a grateful city – he had no idea what it was like to be loved by a single, special person. But whatever it was like, it couldn't be better than being a hero. He nodded firmly, reassuringly, as he bandaged his own wounds and worked until dawn, silent and alone. He nodded again when he went to bed at last, in his own big, empty bed. This was his life, and he was content with it. The life of a hero.


	2. Chapter 2

Harley Quinn heard the key turn in the lock and let out the breath she had been holding for what seemed like ages. Her heart gradually returned to its normal pace and her breathing steadied as the panic that has risen in her throat gradually disappeared. It was all right now. He was back. He was home safe.

The waiting was the worst part, worse than any of Mr. J's beatings, or the Bat's punches, or anything else. The uncertainty, the not knowing, and the waiting. Just lying there in their bed, listening to the minutes tick by on the clock, sitting up to glance at it twenty times a minute, and disappointed when it hadn't changed and he hadn't come home. Just lying there waiting, unable to distract herself because she was so sick with worry. Worry that she felt in the pit of her stomach, so deeply that it hurt. It was the worst kind of torture.

She sat up as she saw him enter the bedroom, a dim silhouette in the light from the hall. "Thought you'd be asleep by now," the Joker muttered.

"Couldn't sleep, puddin'," she replied. "Never can, not until you're safe and sound here with me."

"Well, you won't wanna see this," he murmured, heading across their room to the bathroom in the dark. "So close your eyes and try to sleep. I'll be there shortly."

She obeyed, but opened her eyes as he flicked the lightswitch on in the bathroom. From where she lay, she could see him standing by the sink, studying himself in the mirror. And she couldn't prevent herself from gasping and sitting up again.

"Oh…puddin'!" she gasped, feeling tears coming to her eyes as a bolt of pain shot through her heart. He looked absolutely terrible. Cuts and bruises covered his face and body, his clothes were torn and stained with blood, and he flinched in pain at the effort of turning to face her.

"I told you to shut your eyes!" he snapped.

"Why shouldn't I feel pain when you're clearly in agony?" she gasped, leaping out of bed and rushing to embrace him. She looked for somewhere she could hug him where she wouldn't touch his bruises, and not being able to find a place, she clapped her hands to her mouth instead and sobbed.

"Oh, puddin', why does he do this to you?" she sobbed. "I thought he was meant to be a hero! Heroes don't treat people like this!"

"He's crazy, Harley," he replied, studying his reflection again. "He has his reasons, I guess."

"I know all about his reasons!" she cried. "I know he's got this strict moral code about not killing anyone, but it's ok to beat them to within an inch of their life, is it? Ok to pound them into a bloody pulp? Jesus Christ, Mr. J, he's got no business punishing you! He's the monster! You just try to make people laugh! He's the one who gets off on the violence! He's the sadist! He's…"

She broke off, sobbing. "Hey, hey, hey, baby," he murmured, taking her gently in his arms. "Don't talk about Bats like that. He's a great guy, really, and makes life a lot of fun for me. Only sometimes…sometimes the joke gets old," he said, looking back at the mirror. "And sometimes I just wish he'd get it, and stop all this ridiculous fighting. We're on the same side, him and me. Both two guys who realize that the world's a madhouse, and we have to do the best we can to survive in it. Both two guys who realize we're the sane ones among the loonies. And both two guys who intend to make the most of our superiority, and have a little fun along the way. I get it – why can't he?"

"Cause he's stupid, Mr. J," she muttered. "Just like all bullies. Stupid and selfish and cowardly. He's afraid of you, that's why he does this. It would be easy enough just to knock you unconscious, or restrain you, but no, he has to do this. To beat you down and break you apart, because he's so goddamn insecure…"

"Harley, don't," he interrupted. "It don't make things better."

"Don't do this, Mr. J!" she shrieked. "Don't defend him to me! He ain't nothing like you, I don't care what you say! You don't do this to people! You kill 'em, or hurt 'em, because it's funny! Because it makes you laugh! But this ain't funny, puddin'! Nobody's laughing at this! This is just cruel and hurtful! You ain't cruel compared to him! If you attack a guy, at least the woman waiting for him at home knows he's dead! But me…I gotta suffer this over and over again, the waiting, the goddamn waiting, the uncertainty of not knowing if you'll come back or not, and if you'll even be able to hold me when you do! I just gotta wait and not know! And there's nothing crueler than that, Mr. J! Nothing!"

She burst into tears. "Baby," he murmured, taking her gently in his arms and wincing at the pain of holding her against his bruises. "Baby, shh, it's ok. It's ok, pumpkin pie. Hey, don't cry, kiddo, you wouldn't want Daddy to think you're a crybaby, would you? Daddy doesn't like tears. What does Daddy like?" he whispered, tilting her face up to his.

"Smiles," she murmured. "Smiles and laughter."

"That's right, cupcake," he murmured. "Smiles and laughter. So c'mon, give Daddy a little smile? It would make him feel lots better."

Harley sighed, then managed a small grin. "That's my girl!" he laughed. "C'mon, sweets, it is kinda funny when you think about it, isn't it?"

"You being hurt ain't funny to me, Mr. J," she whispered.

"Oh, but it is, pooh," he retorted, grinning. "It's funny because I go through all the violence, all the pain, and it don't make a difference. It don't mean nothing. It's a joke, pooh bear, all of this. Just one big joke on the Bat. He gets off on doing this because he thinks it does some good – he thinks it's going to stop me in the future. But it ain't. That's the joke. He can beat me as hard as he likes, and I'll always smile and laugh and keep doing what I do. Don't you think that's funny?"

"The idea, yeah," retorted Harley. "A little harder to laugh at it in practice, Mr. J, seeing you all battered like this."

He chuckled. "Well, I can still laugh anyway, and that's what matters." He turned to look in the mirror again and giggled uncontrollably. Harley managed another grin – his laughter always made her smile, even against her will. She gently took his face in her hands and turned it back to her.

"I love you, Mr. J," she whispered, kissing him.

"Yeah, I know, dollface," he murmured, hugging her gently. He kissed the top of her head tenderly and then said, "Think you can get the bloodstains out of the suit?"

"If I work on it now while it's wet," she replied. "So take it off, Mr. J," she ordered, grinning.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, smiling back. Harley giggled as he undressed, tossing his jacket, shirt, and pants at her, so that he was only wearing his undershirt and boxers.

"Keep going, Mr. J," she whispered.

"Not tonight, toots, I'm feeling a little tender," he replied. "I know violence usually puts me in the mood, but I won't be very agile tonight, trust me."

Harley smiled at him. "Well, maybe your Harley girl can make it all better by kissing your boo boo. Or maybe blowing on it. Would you like that, Mr. J?"

"Suit first, kiddo," he replied, grinning. "Then we'll see what you can blow on."

She giggled again as she went over to the bath and filled it up. Then she placed the suit in the soapy water and began scrubbing at it, while the Joker began to put antiseptic on the cuts on his face, flinching.

"You want help with that, puddin'?" she asked.

"Nah, it'll hurt less if I do it myself," he replied. "Not that I wouldn't enjoy you giving me pain, pooh," he added, grinning. "But I'll take care of my face, you take care of the suit. You can see which one I value more," he chuckled.

Harley laughed too, and returned her attention to the suit, her face falling when she saw how red the water was getting, and how much blood was actually on the suit. She wondered if it was her precious puddin's blood, or the Bat's blood. She vehemently hoped it was the latter's. She hoped he was really hurt, really in pain, lots more than Mr. J was. The Bat deserved it. Why couldn't he just leave them alone? The self-righteous bastard. He wasn't the law, or the police – he was just some nosy busybody with too much time on his hands, some crazy nutjob who enjoyed beating up people for fun. The law and the police existed so that order could be maintained – the Bat just caused chaos. And not fun chaos like Mr. J. It just wasn't fair. The police were the authority society had set up to stop crime and mayhem. Mr. J had outsmarted them – he always did. So now they sent a caped freak to challenge him? That didn't seem fair. They were losing, and so now they were cheating. But that was the way the good guys worked, she guessed. It wasn't that they always won – it was just they didn't accept defeat when they lost. So they used whatever methods necessary to make sure they won eventually, even if it meant hurting people, even if it meant sacrificing everything they were fighting for in pursuit of their destruction. They were ruthless, and evil. Why couldn't any of them just accept that Mr. J was right, and had won? Because he was, and he had. But she seemed to be the only one smart enough to see that.

Her angry thoughts had been taken out on the suit by violently scrubbing it, so that the bloodstains were all but gone from it by the time she was returned to reality by the Joker putting his hand on her shoulder. "Easy, slugger, you'll put holes in it," he murmured.

"Sorry, Mr. J," she replied, holding it up. "Does it look all right?"

He nodded. "Nice work, kiddo," he said, pinching her cheek. "Now let's leave it to dry and go to bed. I'm beat," he chuckled.

Harley didn't laugh. She didn't smile as she helped him into bed, her heart torn by every wince and flinch as he tried to lie down without touching his bruises. Her eyes just filled with tears as she lay down next to him. She tentatively tried to snuggle into his body, but he hissed in pain as she leaned against his wounds. She drew away, but he pulled her back into his embrace. "It's ok, kid, I like the way it hurts," he smiled.

She studied the deep, ugly cuts on his chest and face, the tears falling from her eyes. "Why is he so evil, Mr. J?" she whispered.

"He ain't evil, sweets. He's just wrong," murmured Joker.

"Ain't that the same thing?" she asked.

He was silent. "Look, pumpkin, whenever you get angry at him, whenever you hate him, whenever you wish him more pain than he could ever inflict upon me, I just want you to remember one thing."

"What's that, Mr. J?" she asked.

He grinned. "Bats don't come home to this," he murmured, kissing her. "Night, pooh bear."

"Night, puddin'," she breathed, cuddling against his battered body. She did smile when she thought about that. Bad guys always did end up alone. Evil, wicked people like Batman didn't have anyone to love them. While Mr. J had her, his devoted and adoring Harley girl. She was the woman who loved him beyond reason. And he was her hero.

**The End**


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